Chapter 23
The rest of the week was horrendous.
On the first day, Ma took Edmund and proceeded to parade him around the neighborhood, knocking on every door and introducing him to every witch that passed.
Maddox went along too, as was his duty as a guard, and I watched them all from the window with narrowed eyes.
I had been detained at the house with a pile of sewing from our neighbors, which Ma had thrust upon me that morning.
“I promised Pamela that you would mend her doily,” Ma had said brusquely, placing a hefty bag on my bed. “And Larissa would like napkins made from the linen she just weaved. Saoirse has an apron that’s falling apart.”
I gaped at the giant bag of mending that created a dip in my mattress. “Ma! I don’t have time for this!”
“Then make time. You’ve been gone for nine months and didn’t even say goodbye to our neighbors. The least you can do is give them a helping hand before the Harvest. And you wanted a job, didn’t you?”
“I have a job! I have a wedding dress to sew and an emissary to guide—”
“I’ll take care of the emissary.” Ma shut the door behind her before I could argue.
I fumed, fighting to breathe through the sudden feeling of being trapped. My life aboveground had been a decadent taste of freedom. To be thrust back here, without agency, with my time no longer my own, was a cruel, cruel punishment.
Glaring at the bag of mending, I grabbed my thimble and stuffed it over my finger. I was going to get this done. Fast.
Christabella and Sonny passed me by on the window seat of the parlor.
“What’s all that, Gigi?” Christabella asked, watching me cut large squares from Larissa’s linen.
“Napkins.” I snapped my fabric shears closed with more force than necessary. Sonny jumped back.
Christabella made a face. “I thought you were supposed to sew the crown princess’s wedding dress!”
“I was. But Ma volunteered me for free labor,” I grumbled.
Sonny sighed. “Tell me about it. She’s making us help the weather witches.”
“Ah. With relighting the village?”
Christabella nodded. “Some of the weather apprentices are gathering in the village square to discuss what to do. I might be able to help with light. Sonny is there to run errands.”
“All the best,” I said half-heartedly, stacking the linen squares in a pile and brushing the lint off my skirts.
I had finished hemming the napkins and was mending Saoirse’s apron when Ma came back with Edmund and Maddox in tow. There was another bag slung over her shoulder. I gritted my teeth. Surely it couldn’t be...
“More mending,” Ma said, dropping the bag on the finished napkins. “Clarisse wants new pillowcases. Gertrude’s son has trousers that are too long for him. Klaus’s daughter needs the hem of her skirt let down.”
My eye twitched as I suppressed the scream bubbling up my throat.
“Mr. Edmund de Clare. I presume you haven’t seen our irrigation system?”
“Er, no—”
“Perfect. We can go now.” Ma wrapped her shawl around herself and headed back out the door.
Edmund shot me a helpless look and followed her out, Maddox trailing not far behind.
I stabbed my needle into the pin cushion on my wrist. Why did Ma insist on taking over everything in my life?
The mending didn’t stop for the next three days.
Whether it was dishtowels, table runners, sleeves or hosiery, Ma collected them all from the neighbors on her daily outings with Edmund.
Even the speed charm in my thimble could barely keep up.
Christabella and Sonny returned by the end of each day yawning and exhausted—it seemed that Ma insisted on working all her children to the bone.
“Is Witch Village going to get relit soon?” I croaked one night from the foot of my bed, nursing my throbbing fingers.
Christabella was slumped over the other end, an arm thrown over her eyes. “We’re working on a solution.” She sat up and winced. “Can you turn down the lights? It’s bright in here.”
I blew out the singular candle on my bedstand, plunging the room into darkness.
“Ah. Much better.”
***
ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH. I wasn’t going to let Ma keep me under her thumb.
The morning of the fourth day, I gathered my satchel and the last of the mending and snuck out of the house, making sure to avoid the creaky floorboards on my way out.
The witchlights floating along the streets were a temporary solution to the blackout, set a dim blue during the night and a warm yellow during the day.
They were currently greenish, which meant it was about dawn.
I breathed deeply, relishing the lungful of cool air, grateful that there were still weather witches in charge of air flow.
I rounded the house, hiking my skirts up to avoid trampling the herb garden, until I came to the base of the First Oak.
Its branches fanned out in a great canopy above our cottage.
Floating witchlight lanterns were nestled between its boughs, which rustled slightly from a soft breeze.
The leaves were still green, seemingly unaware that it was autumn.
I touched the trunk, wondering how it had gone its entire life without the rays of the real sun, yet had grown so sturdy and strong, rivaling even the trees in Delibera.
Grandma had told me she had planted this tree herself without the aid of magic, to prove that Witch Village would be as hospitable to life as the world aboveground.
At the opposite side of the trunk was a wooden ladder.
I grabbed the rungs and climbed up the trunk, grasping the lowest branch, then swinging myself two branches above to my favorite bough.
It was slightly curved at the base, ideal for sitting.
I rearranged my skirts, mildly out of breath.
I was much less agile than I remembered.
Then again, I hadn’t climbed this tree in three years.
This vantage point granted me a bird’s eye view of the thatched and tiled roofs of our neighbors and the spiraling streets that led to the fields below. It was rather picturesque—a vision of a quaint, quiet village lit aglow with colorful lanterns.
I opened my satchel and pulled out the last remaining piece of mending Ma had given me—it was Pamela’s doily, a finely crocheted circle made of yarn so thin it resembled thread.
Maple leaves and other swirling motifs spanned out from the center, though one side was unraveling.
Luckily, Pamela was considerate enough to include an illustrated diagram of the pattern and some spare yarn.
“If you went through all this trouble you might as well have mended it yourself,” I grumbled under my breath as I tied off the unraveling thread and stuck my crochet hook into the doily.
After the initial struggle of figuring out the pattern, the work came relatively easily.
I hummed under my breath as the witchlight lanterns went from green to yellow, illuminating everything in a soft golden hue that mimicked the sunrise.
As I crocheted, the vision of a new wedding dress came to me like strands of thread weaving and tightening into fabric.
It was in the fashionable silhouette: an empire waist gown with a square neckline and slim flowing skirts.
Crocheted lace covered the bodice like a confection of icing sugar, tiny flowers looped from the finest silk yarn, so delicate it could be mistaken for tatting.
The lace would drape over Narcissa’s shoulders in small, scalloped edges.
The dress would be nothing like high society has ever seen.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes!”
“Yes what?” a deep voice came from above.
I yelped, grabbing the tree trunk for balance. A pair of legs dangled from the branch above me, wearing crisp gray trousers and polished shoes. Edmund peered down at me through the canopy of oak leaves, a smile gracing his handsome face.
“How long were you up there?” I sputtered.
“Long before you came,” Edmund admitted sheepishly. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to distract you from your work.”
A blush rose to my face when I realized he’d heard all my strange mutterings and humming. I wanted to bury my face into the tree and never emerge.
The leaves rustled as Edmund eased himself down to my branch, bracing his arms against the trunk above my head. He settled, clasping his large hands between his knees, and turned his attention to me.
The full effect of his beauty was almost too much to bear. His hair had a windblown, boyish quality to it and there was an even layer of stubble over his jaw, as if he hadn’t had a chance to shave yet. He looked good primped and polished. He looked even better like this.
I swallowed with some difficulty. “What brings you here? I thought everyone was still asleep.”
“I was looking for a quiet place to spend the morning,” Edmund admitted.
“To escape my mother?”
The apologetic look on his face was all the answer I needed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you tired? I know you just recovered from your fever and Ma dragging you around Witch Village all day probably isn’t the best—”
Edmund threw back his head and laughed. The husky sound only embarrassed me more.
“Your concern is touching, Giselle. But I’m fine.
Your mother is a very thorough tour guide.
This little respite is all I need.” He gazed below us, swinging his legs.
“It’s quite beautiful here. In a quaint, fairytale sort of way. ”
I twisted my face. “Fairytale?” It wouldn’t be my first word to describe the village.
“It’s nothing like the city,” Edmund continued. “I’m almost envious of your life.”
“You’d rather have this instead of your fancy carriages and palatial department store?” I said, half-teasing.
He smiled. “I’d rather have a father and a society who’d recognize me than all of that.” He tilted his head at Pamela’s doily in my hands. “You have a community here. Everyone’s willing to lend a hand to one another.”